


Damaged

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Avengers Family, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Concussions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Head Injury, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, References to Drugs, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: “Tony, oh, God, your head. Talk to me. Does it hurt anywhere else?”Was it supposed to? Wasn’t Tony’s brain leaking out of his ears bad enough? He blinked sluggishly, managing to bring the images into a vague sort of focus. There were three faces hovering above him, all blond, beautiful, and terribly upset.God, his head hurt.Tony takes a tumble. Time goes a little funny after that.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 406





	Damaged

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written concussion fic, can you believe that? And gosh, this one was a lot of fun. Hope you enjoy the ride <3
> 
> \- Saber

Oh, _fuck,_ his head hurt.

There was light around him. Sound. He blinked his eyes open, and immediately regretted it. Everything was blurry, and what images he could pick out were painful. They were a straight-edged razor, pick, pick, picking their way through his skull. 

He tried to roll. Knocked his elbow against something hard. He was _lying_ on something hard. Ground? Floor? Ground-floor.

The sounds were getting louder. He could feel movement, vibrating through his bones. Footsteps maybe, pounding in the distance. The maybe not so distant, distance. He couldn’t make out anything definite. He thought there were words, but what words? He didn’t think he could… _words_ right now. Could he?

_Ow._

_“Tony!”_

Tony. Tony? He was Tony. Yes?

Yes. Maybe. Maybe-definitely.

He tried to blink his eyes open again. Lifted an arm to protect them from the light. He dug the heel of his hand into his eye, but his fingers hit something wet. His face was wet. He couldn’t _open_ his right eye because it stung, and it was wet, and oh _God,_ who was shouting?

_“…. over here! Get them over here, I found him. Tony? Baby, can you hear me?”_

Tony. He was Tony.

The voice was agonizing, and familiar, and Tony thought _he_ might be ‘baby’ too, but he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t get his lips to move right, and all he managed was a groan.

_"Tony, oh, God, your head. Talk to me. Does it hurt anywhere else?”_

Was it _supposed_ to? Wasn’t Tony’s brain leaking out of his ears bad enough? He blinked sluggishly, managing to bring the images into a vague sort of focus. There were three faces hovering above him, all blond, beautiful, and terribly upset.

 _God,_ his head hurt.

The blond beautiful faces were pressing something to the right side of _his_ face, and Tony hissed. Garbled a complaint he wasn’t entirely sure was in English.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

The beautiful man lowered his voice, and that was nice. That didn’t hurt worse, at least. It was quieter now, but it sounded trembly. Trem-bly. That was a funny word, trembly.

Tony giggled.

The beautiful men – man, one just one – kept a hand pressed to the side of Tony’s head that was hurting. Held _his_ hand with the other. “Stay with me. Help is coming.”

Stay. Sure. Where was Tony gonna go, with his head hurt, and his eyes not working?

“Ow,” he garbled, and that was a word. He’d managed a word. Tony was enormously proud of himself. The blond men –two of him now, that was good, right? – only looked more distressed to hear it. Tony swallowed hard. Frowned. Tried again. “Wh-What—"

The blond man had a name. People had _names._ They had names, and this one was Tony’s favorite. He couldn’t just keep calling him the blond man. This was a thing he knew. He _knew_ this. What the hell was the thing?

His head _pulsed._

“Concussion, definitely.” The blond –fuck, fuck, _names—_ muttered, cursing. Tony didn’t think he was talking to _him._ “God damn it.”

Con-cussion. That seemed right. Tony nodded to himself, but that was a mistake. The pain was terrible, made him cry out. Bad idea, bad idea. Worst idea, in the _history_ of ideas…

The blond – _Christ,_ he was pretty—was touching his ear. Screaming at someone not Tony, and a scrap of metal glinted in the dim firelight. Fire. There was fire blazing behind them and there shouldn’t be fire indoors –were they _outdoors?_

The man swung Tony into his arms, and he didn’t remember anything after that. Time went weird, and the pain was _pain,_ but then his eyes were open again, and he was on a bed in a room where there was no fire. The blond was still there, at least. Beside Tony, in a chair.

The thing he couldn’t remember. The name.

_Steve._

Tony thought he must have managed words again because Steve jerked awake, bleary-eyed. His clothes were torn, burnt around the edges. Tony thought clothes weren’t supposed to be burnt. He should change. He was supposed to change, wasn’t he?

“Oh, Tony. Thank God. We couldn’t wake you.” Steve’s eyes were dark, and red-rimmed. His voice all trembly again, and Tony didn’t like that, because trembly was bad. Trembly meant bad things.

“C-Con-cussion. S’ve. You said…con…cussion.”

Steve’s lips twitched. His face twisted, like it was trying to laugh, or cry. Maybe both. “That’s right. You hit your head. Do you remember that?”

Tony realized there were bandages in the way. They were wrapped around his head, covering his right eye, and he reached up with a heavy arm. Patted his face. Patted again. Patted—

“Careful.” Steve took his hand. Clasped it, between both of his. “Stitches under there, love. We don’t want to disturb them.”

Disturb. No. Do not disturb. That would be…bad?

Tony thought hard. Pursed his lips. “I…hit m’ head.”

Steve smiled. Smiles were supposed to be happy, but this one was sad. Were they supposed to be sad? “That’s right.”

Then Tony blinked, and time must have gone funny again, because there was a woman here now. She was wearing blue, and blue was bright, and it hurt. Everything hurt.

“Mr. Stark? I’m just here to change your dressings. Is that okay?”

Tony wrinkled his nose. “M’n’t wearin’ a dress.” Was he? He l craned his neck to look down at himself, and oh, was _that_ ever a bad idea. He paused mid-motion, with a choked-off groan.

The woman smiled. People sure were smiling a lot today.

“How ‘bout your bandages, then? Get you nice and clean?”

Tony mulled it over. Bandages. His head was wrapped in bandages. He nodded. Remembered nodding was bad and moaned again. He brought both hands up to hide his face, keep his brain from leaking out, because it _must_ be leaking out. It hurt _so_ bad…

He muttered his reply, and oh, that hurt, too. Oh, _fuck._

He blinked again, and it was over. Tony though that was wrong. It was wrong, to lose time. He didn’t _have_ time.

“How’s that feel?” the woman asked, and it still hurt. Of course, it still hurt, they were just _bandages._ What were bandages gonna do? Was she _insane?_

“I hit m' _head,”_ Tony replied, angrily.

If she answered, he didn’t hear.

Tony closed his eyes. He was tired. _So_ tired.

Steve whispered to him, and Tony didn’t know what he said. But he felt the gentle press of lips, at his temple. The one that hurt so bad. Warm fingers, combing through his hair.

He woke again, and it was dark. Steve’s voice was here, and another was, too.

_“…CT came up clean. He just needs time.”_

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

Tony opened his eyes. Blinked at Steve, and there was another blond now, holding a steaming cup of something. The new blond –Clint, _Clint,_ Jesus fuck—smiled, and it wasn’t Steve’s weird smile, but it wasn’t _right._ All gentle, and quiet, and…

“Hey, buddy.” Clint took his hand. “How ya’ feelin’?”

Speak. Tony had to speak. They were just words. He knew words. He was _good_ at words. Where _were_ they?

“I…” His mouth worked, soundlessly. “Con-cussed.” No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. Tony scowled. Tried again. “Con…”

“It’s okay.” Steve sat at his side again. Patted his thigh through the sheets. “Don’t force it. Let it come.”

“No!” shouted Tony. It _wasn’t_ okay, he could _do_ this. He gritted his teeth. Shut his good eye against the pain. “C-Clint…con…”

“Hey, hey, relax.” Clint sat, too, and his face was wrong, like everything else. “Took a real bad hit there, Shellhead.”

Shellhead. Tony was Shellhead.

Something warm settled, in the pit of his stomach.

The next time he woke, there was a woman, and Tony remembered her name, so that was good. He remembered she was Natasha, and she had a book in her hand.

Tony blinked. Looked around. Blinked again. _Could_ somebody blink with one eye, or was he just winking?

“Your hubby’s downstairs getting some grub and taking the world’s fastest shower in the locker room. He’s lucky the nurses like him.” Natasha tilted her brow. What she gave Tony wasn’t quite a smile, but it still looked okay.

“Tasha…. Nat-tasha.”

“Tin-Man.” She inclined her head, tilted her lips. Her gaze sharpened. Her eyes, intent. “You good?”

Tony pressed the heel of his hand to the bad side of his forehead, as it gave an errant throb. He was _not_ good. He was not good at all. A pained, vaguely coherent moan tumbled from his dry lips. “O’ God.”

She rewarded him with a muted chuckle. “Yup. Sounds about right.”

The door swung open soon after, and Steve came in, balancing two steaming cups. His face brightened when he saw Tony, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he was a vision, in his hospital gown. He didn’t even _have_ vision. There were _bandages_ over his vision.

“I brought you some coffee, love. Decaf, but the doctor said it was okay.”

Nausea roiled, churned sickeningly in his gut, and that was bad. That was super bad. That was mega awful bad. He needed to…words. 

Tony swallowed convulsively, waves of heat crashing over him. “Puke…gonna…”

Somebody got the gist of it, and they managed to shove a basin under his nose before all hell broke loose, and break loose it did. He heaved his guts out, Steve rubbing his back. Natasha holding the basin for him.

Tony knew should be embarrassed. He was a sweaty, grubby, ragdoll, draped over Steve’s arm.

Right now, he was just glad he hadn’t puked all over the sheets. Oh, his _head…_

 _“Fuck…”_ Tony groaned, pushing the basin away. “Fucking… _fuck.”_

“Yeah. He’s gonna be fine,” Natasha quipped, somewhere off to the side. Steve settled Tony back against his chest. Wiped his sweaty forehead, and Tony flipped her off, because it felt like something he should do.

Their smiles lit up the room.

When Tony woke next, he started to cry.

Steve made a soft, wounded noise. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, what’s wrong, tough guy?”

Nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong. Tony was wrong, he was cracked. Damaged. Concussed. Oh, he wanted his head to stop hurting. _Please,_ make it stop.

Steve gathered him up, held him close, and Tony slumped against him. Buried the good side of his face in his chest. The other side was a raw, open wound, pounding, bleeding, leaking out of his skull _._

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Tony whined, struggled to pull it together, because it _wasn’t_ okay. He could control this. God _damn_ it. He…

…couldn’t control this.

Oh, _God._

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t—

Tony was breathing hard, breathing _fast,_ and his chest was hurting. His chest was throbbing. His chest was _bleeding_ too, it must be. “S-Steve, I can’t…I can’t, I…”

“Shh…” Steve stroked his hair. “Hit your head. _Real_ hard, sweetheart. Your feelings are bound to go a little haywire. I know that’s scary.”

Tony sniffled. “Don’t want feelings. Don’t _do_ feelings.”

“I know, I know.” Steve kissed the side of his head. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Stop _saying_ that!” Tony snarled, digging his nails into Steve’s bicep. He made a fist. Slammed it up against the bedframe. “It’s not okay _._ Do I look _okay?!”_

Steve hushed him. “You’re sick, and you’re scared, and that really does stink. And you’re right. It’s not okay. But, it’s gonna be. I promise. I promise...”

Tony hid in the circle of Steve’s arms. His heart monitor ticked up, which had a nurse rushing in. And Tony was not interested. He let the two of them talk. Let their words wash over him. His exhaustion was bone deep. He felt wrung out. Disoriented. Himself and not himself, and his head _hurt,_ God. He couldn’t think past the _pain._

Their voices were little more than white noise. And when Tony finally did resurface, it was to Steve, whispering in his ear. He continued rubbing his back, kissing Tony's temple. “You want a Xanax? The nurse says it’ll calm you down.”

Tony gave a watery scoff. He’d been a fifteen-year-old college kid once; he knew what _Xanax_ was. He was concussed, not brain dead.

Tony sniffled. “Want _all_ the Xanax.”

Steve chuckled, his eyes, fond. “Maybe just one for now, hmm?”

Tony grumbled irritably. He snaked a shaking hand out of his blanket cocoon to take the little plastic cup from the nurse, tossing it back into his mouth, and dry swallowing it, unapologetically.

Steve did not look amused. He cleared his throat. Raised a pointed eyebrow.

Tony glowered back, but didn’t protest when Steve snatched his water cup from the side tray. He held the bendy straw to his lips, and Tony took one reluctant, slobbering sip before jerking back again. He retreated, hunkered down into Steve’s chest. Tony dared him to argue. He would fight him. He could _take_ him.

Steve –wise man that he was—was silent for a moment, deliberating. Then, he sighed. “Good enough.”

The nurse left. Tony let the meds numb his senses. Dull the sharp, panicked edges, chopping at his insides. Steve still held him, idly stroking his arm.

“Sorry,” Tony murmured. His voice, dull. “M’ _sorry…”_

“You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for, baby doll. Not a gosh darned thing.”

Tony struggled to think through the haze. Claw through the brain fog, piece by painful piece. Tried to make this his fault, ‘cause it usually was. “I don’t?”

“Of course not,” Steve replied, as if the very idea of it were absurd. Then, he resumed his gentle rocking, drawing the blankets back over Tony’s head.

“Oh. Okay.” Tony nodded against his collar bone. If Steve said so, it must be true.

Steve pressed his lips to Tony’s forehead. “Go to sleep, love. I’ll be right here.”

Tony’s head throbbed. His eyes burned. “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

He sniffled. “I’m _fucking_ concussed.”

Steve chuckled. Held him closer. “That you are, sweetheart. But we’ll get through it.”

His eyes were getting heavy. He was soft, and warm, and with Steve, and he wanted to sleep. He _needed_ to sleep. He felt like he hadn’t slept in _days._ How many days had it been?

“Yeah?”

Another kiss. “Yeah.”

Tony closed his eyes.

He slept.


End file.
